


The Sound of Moonlight

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat hears a strange, alien music in the halls of the meteor and goes to search it out. What he discovers is not what he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Moonlight

The music echoes up the halls the meteor, bouncing and ricocheting off of them in a way that makes it difficult to pick out where they come from other than the general direction of down. You stand in the dark, eyes half closed, simply listening from the strange music that floats up from the depths, the darkness, the belly of this place you are forced to live in- hide in- possibly die in.

Your fingers clench into fists, again, and the familiar prick of your claws against your palms does nothing to pull you from the horrible aching in your chest.

You’ve never heard anything like this before, this sound completely foreign, completely unnatural, completely _alien_ , and so soothing.

You’ve forgotten where you were headed, though it was probably just back to your own respiteblock.

You step into the darkness, listening with eyes barely open, ears wide open, and your blood pusher throbbing.

Suddenly, so very _painfully_ suddenly, the music is gone. It has faded and you’re left standing in utter darkness, completely alone. A chill ripples through your body. You catch your breath, open your eyes, turn around and then make it two steps before the song begins again.

The first notes throb like an unsteady pulse, halting and hesitating as if questioning that the blood it pushes, the life it is sustaining, is really worth it.

Your feet are moving again, running down the steps, bringing you closer, dragging you nearer. Your breath catches in your chest, in your throat, in your very blood and throbs. You are drawn to the sound and finally, _finally_ you find the source.

It’s alien, that’s for sure.

Dave fucking Strider sits on a bench, feet tucked underneath, one foot still and the other heel bouncing in a steady rhythm. He sits in front of a large, sleek black strange table. Three legs hold it up and the lid of it is propped open. The sound is coming from there each time his fingers touch a different ivory white or jet black bar in front of him.

You stand in the doorway, for once completely calm, completely speechless. You watch his fingers move slowly, purposefully over the white and black. His back is straight, his shoulders at ease, the stiff look of _coolguy_ is melted off of him like this sound, this melody, this music is a torch to his white cocoa body.

You flush at the thought of comparing him to a sweet, and flick your eyes up from his shoulders to his head. His chin is dipped forward, he bobs and sways with the swelling of the melody, his hair moving against his face, behind his ears, on the back of his neck like each strand is perfectly placed light silk thread. You flush even darker when you realize your hand itches to reach up and touch the hair and see if your mental comparison is accurate.

That’s when you notice that the black that usually sits on his ears, the arms of his shades, are missing and said shades are on top of the table. You have never seen his eyes. That thought makes something inside of you, just as compelling as the strange, sorrowful music, pull you towards him.

As the music slows down, halting, fading, you step softly across the room. Then it picks up again, your blood pusher clenches as you can feel him building up to the end again. The end comes as a tiny flourish and then his fingers just stay there on the keyboard.

You look from his fingers to those shades and suddenly you can see his face reflected in them. Your eyes meet in the reflection and the dark lens makes it impossible for you to tell what shade his eyes are. You stop and stare.

You expect him to flip on the shades, turn, make some smart ass comment and then abscond with the swagger and smirk of a kid who didn’t really care you caught him at this strange instrument making alien music. Instead his fingers lift off the ivory for a moment and then he dips his head down and begins to play the same song again.

You don’t understand.

You stand there, completely not understanding why he would do something so unlike him, so fucking strange and almost pitiable in front of you. This has to be some sort of weakness, or else why would he play alone in the belly of the meteor, with only the single dim light overhead?

Slowly you walk all the way over to him. His eyes are closed as he plays, his fingers dancing over white and black and each press brings out another ringing note that, now so close, vibrates through you and to the world beyond. You don’t know what to do so you decide to sit down on the bench beside him.

He doesn’t even falter, the asshole, or react at all. His hands continue to move, his mouth in a thin line or maybe with the slightest smile, and his eyes closed. You sit with your hands clenched on your knees and soon your eyes are closing as well. He drags out the end just the same and you feel your guts twisting inside of you as he finishes with the flourish. Then his hands pull away from the keys.

The silence wraps around you like a heavy dark blanket and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you open your mouth to speak.

He sucks in a breath and you hesitate, just a moment. He reaches up blindly for his glasses. Your hand moves on its own when you grab his wrist and you take the glasses yourself. Normally you hate these, you hate him, so _much_ that you want to throw them to the ground and grind them to dust under your heel. Now, your chest is filled with twisting pity and your head is full of that music and you lift the glasses up.

He turns his head towards you and his eyes are open and they are so fucking beautiful. They’re bright crimson, or scarlet, or ruby or any of those fancy reds, but what you think of most is that they are the color of your blood- candy ass red and mutant through and through. You slide the glasses onto his face and he does smirk that time.

You know the moment he opens his mouth and says something ironic and cool that you’re going to start hating him all over again and you think maybe he feels the same way so you keep your mouth shut and he keeps his mouth shut. Instead he turns away and puts his hands on the keys and whispers, “One more time won’t hurt.”

Except it does.

Except it pulls at your chest and your mind and drags you into the sound, into the warmth of his side, into- and you don’t know why- thoughts of your hive in the middle of the night where you stare up at the sky for one blissful, actually okay moment. No one bothering you on your husktop and crabdad somewhere down below and slumbering and the stars so incredibly, amazingly bright and everything is _right_ and _okay_. Even the thought that your mutation will be discovered, that you will be culled in the most torturous ways is gone as you listen to him build the melody under his pale fingers on white, bonelike bars.

You begin to forget that you’re not doomed, that almost all of your friends are dead, and then you have a hitching moment in the music and you _remember_ and it pours over you and fills you with halting, night-air-cold chills and not even that hopeful twirl of fingers at the end can stop the horror and doubt that fills in your muscles and your bones and your body and the song isn’t even that _long_ how can it tear you apart like this it isn’t fucking _right._

Your breath hiccups and the music’s stopped and your fists are tight in your lap, shoulders hunched and your head is bowed to have your mess of hair fall into your face and you fucking hiccup _again_. And now you’re sniffling, trying not to sob on the bench beside your nemesis or possible kismesis or just the fucking annoying pink  hornlessmonkey and holly _shit_ he just sniffled too.

His hands don’t move from the ivory but his head is bowed and his lips twisted down and you look up enough to see the glitter of clear tears on his cheeks. You stare at him, mouth open, and he lifts his chin and you’re close enough to see his eyes open behind the shades and two spots of pink-red color flood his cheeks before he looks away again. He starts scrubbing at his cheeks, sniffling, trying to stop.

It’s just so pitiful. Him playing music alone in the dark like this, the same song over and over and you wonder why this song, why this instrument, why the darkness and why did it bring you home only to rip you apart. You lean your shoulder against his and bring up your arm to cover your eyes because the tears just got fucking _worse_ and you sit there, leaning into him as he leans into you, _sobbing_ and at least you’re not alone in that because he makes these wet little gasps and sniffles and okay maybe some of those are you.

The two of you cry wordlessly, trying to hold it in and failing completely and it is only after you’ve soaked your sleeves and his nose begins to run that you actually start calming down. You give one more hiccup and he does one more sniffle and then you’re silent again.

That’s when the awkwardness of the situation piles down around you- that silent blanket of comfort now stifling and you pull away from his shoulder.

His fingers twitch like he was going to grab your arm but that was probably just your head and you slide off the bench. You stand on trembling legs and turn to look at him.

His jaw is set and his shoulders squared and he looks at you like you’re going to throw something or say something to cut into his flesh or something, like he has to somehow cover his exposed belly from your attacks like a barkbeast caught on its back. He looks at you like you could break him and suddenly you realize that you probably could, you could break him and he could break you and you could tear each other to shreds so easily. And that is just the most pitiful thing, how you could ruin each other, how you _expect_ that heavy hand of snark, sarcasm, scathing hatred and violence.

Your hand moves before you’re thinking past how stupid this is and he only just manages not to flinch and you’re struck with the sudden realization that humans are so terribly, _terribly_ fragile as you run your thumb over his soft cheek. You brush your thumbpad through the remnants of a wet streak, then pull your finger back and look at the clear moisture. You lick it off your thumb, cheeks flushing as you do so, and taste his tears. They’re salty like the sea and if pain had a taste they have a little bit of that too.

There’s a weird sound like he sucked in his breath on top of an already captured breath and you look at him, your hand leaving your mouth. You don’t know what to say, still. This moment is weird, tense but not, awkward but not, like some weird bubble that you two entered and one misstep could break it, shatter it and you want desperately, _desperately_ for it to remain intact and-

His hand reaches up, touches your cheek. His fingertips come back slightly watery pink and he licks your tears from his fingers and then begins to _laugh_ and you are _so_ going to throttle him-

But he says quickly, the words rushing out over his laughter, “I expected them to be sweet, I don’t know why.”

You blush and step back and you mutter, “Fuckass,” under your breath and look away from him.

You expect snark for your insult and get silence. You look up to see him smiling at the instrument, touching it gently. “You’re not going to play that ridiculous thing again, are you?”

“Nah.” He shrugs and slides off the bench. He tucks away the instrument and bench into his sylladex and then slides his hands into his pockets.

You watch him walk out of the room, smooth and silent, and you think about his bright red eyes, his pale fingers dancing over ivory and your hive. Your chest aches and you think you’re okay with that feeling of pity lingering for just a little longer.

You can always hate him again later.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Clair de Lune by Debussy. If you want to hear it, it is on youtube.


End file.
